


John By Northwest

by danglingdingle



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danglingdingle/pseuds/danglingdingle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the bizarre compass, the bizarre dreams, and then, there's John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble that grew.

The tall man stepped on the coffee table, back to the floor, on top of the table again, forehead scrunched in deep rumination. In his hand he held an open compass while the seller's (A peculiar man, mesmerizing. Something in his dark eyes Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. Something old.) final words ran through his mind like mantra; 'It'll come to you' - the perplexing response to Sherlock's question on how it worked, since it clearly didn't point North. No. Not even Northwest.

The needle, no matter how much Sherlock turned, twisted, whirled and jumped, pointed unwaveringly towards John.


	2. Out of His Depth

Sherlock, oddly, his heart not in the case despite its peculiar circumstances, made the elementary observations the police had once again overlooked, feeling something amiss as he watched John crouched next to the dead man on the roof.

"Suicide," Lestrade established, as the rope the man had hanged himself with was still around his neck.

"Murder," John agreed with Sherlock's silent scoff.

Half-unwitting, Sherlock reached his pocket, touching the antique curio the mountebank had sold for an arm and a leg, fingers sliding along the time-smoothed lid before edgily snapping it open.

Steadfast, the sodding thing offered not new direction.


	3. Fantastical Clues

The dream, if one could call it that, seemed more like a memory than anything else, despite the era being long gone, the faces unfamiliar, (but there was something….someone…eerily well-known) the surroundings clouded in the haze of slumber, details switching places, time having no meaning, leaving the vast horizon his only true constant.

Sherlock turned in his fitful slumber, scrunching his forehead as if in front of a particularly puzzling case.

***

 _There had been something wrong with the Captain for over half a year now, as Mr. Gibbs recalled, but the last month had been stressing for the whole crew. Jack had been distracted by his thoughts and, apparently, they didn't leave him alone even to get a good night's sleep. Usually Jack's behaviour becoming more odd than usual, meant trouble._

 _For the past three days the captain had stood there, nailed on the spot, not noticing the burning sun nor the whipping winds that blew from the open sea. It seemed that Jack's world consisted of the helm of the Pearl, the sounds of the sea and the alcohol that he kept marinating himself with._

 _Standing there, caressing his Pearl with his tar-stained fingers, lost in his thoughts, Captain Jack Sparrow had his eyes fixed on a compass, watching the needle pinpoint to an exact location, the battle within the man overpowering. The choices to make were impossible to avoid much longer, Jack having dodged them, flitted between raindrops for long enough already._

 _He snapped the compass shut and made his decision. Hell might not hath fury like a woman scorned and Jack knew better than anyone else that it applied to a certain man as well._

 _Besides, when was the last time he'd denied his heart's desire?_

***

Sherlock's eyes flung open at the last remnants of his dream, hand grabbing for the compass at his bedside table, the smooth surface comforting, in what was a feeling Sherlock was unfamiliar with - yearning. Longing. The reflection of the Captain's emotions shining off him brightly, pieces trying to find suitable places to fall into, rationally, in a mind which abhorred magic.


	4. Dreams Are Made...

Eyes closed, fingertips pressed together under his chin and legs crossed at the ankles, Sherlock sat in his chair, three nicotine patches latched to his left arm under a hastily bundled up sleeve of his housecoat. To any possible observers, it would have seemed that the man was is deep trance.

The morning rose with its pale, wintery fingers poking through the windows of 221B Baker Street, finally dawning light on the seemingly peaceful man, casting shadows aside from everywhere else than the man's busy brain.

Letting his mind process the more improbable possibilities, like one of John having been magnetized so that the needle of the old compass was inexorably drawn to him, Sherlock's mouth twisted into a small smile at the idea, vividly picturing all metallic items swooshing through the air to cling and clink to John.

With a long-suffering sigh turning into a fond smile, Sherlock decided John had made him watch too many superhero movies, and proceeded to clamp his fingers around the octagon once more.

It was nothing out of the ordinary; Made of solid wood, no hidden lockers, no tiny sliding doors, nothing that would aid in revealing its secrets.

His non-dream, non-memory continued to bother him, niggling in the crevices of his brain, painting chimeric landscapes of endless seas, black pearls and black ships, sceneries with palm trees and brilliant sunsets.

Sherlock's hand itched at the aeriform touch he'd seen in his repose. A recollection which wasn't his, and yet, with another person, at another time, it could have been…

Closing his eyes again, leaning his head back, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the compass as if in a prayer.

***

 _It had all begun with what was meant to be only a test. In a jest._

 _To test dear William's blood heritage, to see if there really was some posh, tea-drinking, wine-tasting, poncey nob hidden in that wild, untamable and absolutely, undeniably swashbuckling nature that the young man had shown. Pirate's nature, if you will._

 _In the middle of the ruckus with the marines in Port Royal, Captain Sparrow himself and Will being surrounded by the soldiers, no one paid attention to a dexterous hand planting a small object in Will's vest's pocket, in that precise, fleeting, impossible moment when everybody had their eyes on Will._

 _No one even noticed Jack glancing a look around to see if anybody noticed. Noticing nobody noticing nothing, he was free to get on with his fortuitous escape._

 _It was all for Jack's own amusement; something for him to ponder upon with a mental mischievous smirk on the quiet, uneventful days when there was nothing but the doldrums, the sea and the sun. And the rum. Just a little something to occupy his mind with. Something…interesting._

 _First, it had worked handsomely._

 _Imagining young William finding the pearl in his pocket, holding to it, putting it away and finding it again to fiddle with in growing anxiety, oh, it had been Jack's favourite pastime for weeks!_

 _Then the thought had lost its certainty. All of a sudden, Jack had substantial difficulties getting the pleasant image back, and found it, much to his dismay, turned into something which closely resembled fear._

 _The entertaining picture had changed into Will finding the pricy surprise and giving it to the bonnie lass as a promise to spend all of his life in the boring, land-lubbing hebetudes._

 _On one otherwise perfectly normal day, Jack noticed that he couldn't shake the unwelcome image even when he wanted to._

 _The nice little thought had turned into an obsession in the next six months, distorted, winded, twisted and balled up into a daymare._

 _It wasn't what you could call a problem, per se. Jack usually enjoyed his obsessions, were they pleasant or not, him most certainly having a few, but with this one, he didn't really care for the fact that he couldn't get the first, pleasant, tingling view back._

 _Somewhere, deep within, a tiny voice which sounded remarkably like Miss Swann, spoke of times well spent, of devotion, of love and complete misunderstandings. Whispers of Will Turner having chosen a life on land, and finding happiness elsewhere, which most certainly was not with Jack._

 _Then it started to intervene his dreams._

 _In his favourite dream they were back in Port Royal, Jack hunkering behind Will at sword point, and in the moment when Elisabeth took her stand, in the spur of the moment to address Commodore Norrington, Will turned to Jack with the pearl on his palm, smiling, agreeing to the unuttered proposal, and in the same fluent, unspoken, mutual understanding that they had fought through the marines with, they took the plunge off of the cliff._

 _Together._

***

"Tea?"

"Coffee, thanks."

The only thing revealing Sherlock had startled at all was conveniently hidden beneath his collar, as the pale skin on the back of his neck tinged red.

"I was making tea, not coffee." John rubbed his sleepy eyes, yawning in the general direction of Sherlock. "Make your own."

"While you're in the kitchen, John…"

"Fine. But only this once. At least you didn't wake up Mrs. Hudson to cater you…this time, Sherlock," the reproach in John's voice was soft, curiously tugging forth another non-memory from Sherlock's brain, almost as if Sherlock had heard it before.

"Biscuits?" John didn't get an answer from the tall man sitting up in his chair, head tilted like he was carefully listening to the sounds outside the house.

And listening he was. To the words of the man who had sold the compass, the response to Sherlock's inquiries why he was so keen on selling it; "I've already got everything I want," the eerily familiar seller swished a hand towards the corner of the street, where there was a handsome young man, waiting for his companion, arms crossed over his chest, openly curious as to the ongoing proceedings. "He's standing right over there."

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, his thumb caressing the side of the compass gently, the real memory pushing through the surreal. Giving a glance at John hovering at the kitchen door, Sherlock smiled, hoping that John's worry might subside, topping it off with a; "Some biscuits would be nice, thank you."

However, these actions did not have the desired effect as John's eyes widened in amazement, pretending to steady himself against the doorframe, feigning shock. "Impossible!"

"Improbable."

Squinting at Sherlock, John quit his act and turned serious, suddenly wide awake. "What are we working on?"

"Nothing. You know my methods. I wouldn't eat otherwise," Sherlock set the compass on the armrest of his chair, the item catching John's interest at the movement.

"You're still fiddling with it? What's so special about it?" John took the few steps separating him from the curio, picking it up in front of Sherlock, and flicked it open.

"That's the mystery," Sherlock, bless his heart, managed to keep his voice level even when his heart picked up a new beat.

"That's odd," John shrugged, leisurely handing the polygon back to Sherlock, calling behind while disappearing back into the kitchen. "I thought the windows were heading East."


	5. No Luck At All

Sherlock, clad only in his pajama pants, sat cross-legged on his bed with the cursed, Sherlock had come to insist, compass in his hands.

Hair tousled from his fitful sleep, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the compass needle sway from the direction of the sitting room to the kitchen, an back again. He could hear John's footsteps albeit the man trying to slink around noiselessly, and blamed the booming sound of cannons firing for the dream he'd had, before startling awake again.

\-----------------------------

 _Jack had bumped into Gibbs on the way to the Great Cabin and had given him specific orders not to disturb him under any condition, unless, of course, it was Hector, risen from the dead to breath Hellfire upon Jack and causing all kinds of trouble while attempting to take over the Pearl. Again._

 _Now he was sitting at his desk, maps and pieces of parchment scattered all over the surface, upon which the Captain was pouring, biting his lip in concentration._

 _So far his cunning plan had involved arriving in Tortuga._

 _He had doodled some scribbling on a piece of parchment to help him think, and so far he had struck out bartering a passage on a trading vessel and the possibility of commandeering a boat to sail into Port Royal all by his onesies._

 _No doubt there would be no sight of any merchant ships in the near vicinity of Tortuga in the first place, and, upon the off chance of that happening, they were most certainly all alerted of one Captain Jack Sparrow anyway. So unless he was going to learn how to shed his skin real quick-like, that was not a direction to heed towards._

 _Sailing alone, like before, could be an option, but the dockmaster would recognize him immediately, along with all the other good citizens of the fine town. They'd all had a real good look at him at the gallows…_

 _The risks in actually going to Port Royal were both vast and major, so was there a way to lure Will out of there?_

 _He twirled a quill between his hands, completely unawares of the ink smudging his fingers.  
…If he could use the parrot to deliver a note to the smithy…Then again, it was a parrot, not a pigeon…_

 _Startling, his heart practically in his mouth, Jack nearly upended the vial of ink at the sound of the knocking on the door_

 _"I thought I told you I wasn't to be disturbed, you insufferable git!" He shouted harshly._

 _Mr. Gibbs` reply came with a shaky undertone._

 _"Captain, there's a visitor onboard, Sir… We `ad to fish `im up, and by the sound of it,  
`e don't wish to be thrown back before talking to you, Cap'n."_

 _Jack's hackles were raised. Realizing the absurdity of a visitor being aboard, given the unmistakable fact that they were indeed sailing, in the middle of the sea nonetheless, he donned his tricorn and lift his chin up, hand to his sword, bracing himself to meet this, who, or whatever it was that he was going to meet._

 _Taking a deep breath, Jack sat back in his chair. "Aye, c'mon in then..."_

 _The door creaked miserably as it was opened._

 _"Oi! watch it!" Gibbs complained as the visitor shoved himself past Gibbs and into the Great Cabin._

 _Gibbs snapped his mouth shut to stop himself from sending a terrible curse over the man who had stepped on his toes, in more ways than one, mind, and closed the door to the cabin._

 _Shrugging, Mr. Gibbs took a sip from his flask of rum, and strolled up on the deck. This was certainly none of his business._

 _Jack's eyes widened with utter disbelief, unable to do more than hang his mouth open and nearly fall on his back, when his first reaction was to get as far away from the bloody ghost as humanly possible._

 _Instantly deciding not to give up without a fight, he stood up from the chair to level the eyes of the unexpected guest._

 _"Good evening, Captain Sparrow." The man stepped forth and deposited a small pouch on the table. "I found this. I believe it's yours."_

\-------------------

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock unraveled his legs and reached for his housecoat, unwittingly pocketing the compass as if he couldn't bear the thought of parting with it, an trudged into the sitting room barefoot.

"Nightmares again?" Sherlock sat next to John on the sofa, barely glancing at the TV that was responsible for the crash and boom of pirate ships being blown apart.

"Yeah--," John responded absentmindedly, nudging Sherlock's knee with his own; "Watch this, this is the best part." The childish enthusiasm made Sherlock smile fondly as he turned his interest on the screen.

"It's an undead monkey! Look!"

A critter with pointed teeth and decayed flesh screeched at Sherlock, and moments later, the eyes of the great detective widened in astonishment. 'Jack Sparrow,' someone said. A name which had become so familiar with Sherlock, he'd began to regard the man as a friend. And when he says 'friend'…

"That's the name the odd gentleman gave me," Sherlock said in a low voice, leaning back, his hand diving into his pocket to brush over the polygon.

"Who?" John shook his attention from the telly and onto Sherlock, biting into a sandwich.

"The man who sold me the compass." Sherlock thumped his hand to the sofa in aggravation. "I should've known it. There's always something!"

"What does it matter if he gave you an alias? It's not like you're going to look him up and invite him for a romantic dinner," John offered the nibbled sandwich to Sherlock, who took a bite while John was holding it.

Chewing his mouthful under the satisfied gaze of one worried John Watson, Sherlock fished the octagon from his pocket and tossed it on the table. "I would like to look him up and demand a refund. The thing is obviously broken. There's something profoundly wrong with it, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It troubles me," Sherlock opened his mouth in the direction of John, who obliged with sticking the rest of the sandwich between Sherlock's teeth.

"We need milk," Sherlock mumbled, lifting himself from the sofa, much to the surprise of John.

While Sherlock scooted over to the kitchen, John grabbed the compass from the table and popped it open, frowning at the needle as it made a full circle before hovering as if following something.

Shrugging, John placed it back on the table and began munching on another sandwich, returning to the late night rerun of Pirates of the Caribbean, forgetting all about the compass as he delved into the world of swashbuckling adventures and Aztec gold.

Sherlock returned with two glasses of milk, instantly noticing the compass open on the table. "Did you touch that?" he asked amiably, getting an absent 'Mmm-hmm' for an answer.

Not that there was anything wrong with John handling the compass, no, he was free to fiddle with it to his heart's content, but the fact stood, stark and sharp, indubitable and as fixed as a compass needle possibly could, that it pointed to Sherlock.


	6. The Outcome

Laying in his bed again, after making sure the good doctor was as fine as he could be after the tormenting nightmares and a sandwich, Sherlock pressed his pillow to his face in hopes that the lack of oxygen would keep his own dreams at bay. Too much was toiling in the brilliant brain. So much so, that it had no option but to shut down completely…

\-------------------------------------------------

 _Jack pushed his head out, carefully, much like a turtle, and tilted it to his left, his black eyes wide.  
His hands were in front of him resembling to a hare when it's looking around for any danger._

 _Jack seemed puzzled for a second, then understanding replaced the puzzlement. "Ah… so it is that you found it"_

 _He opened the parcel with nimble fingers, a serious, almost respectful look on his face._

 _A black pearl dropped from the folding of the cloth, reflecting dull light that came from the lanterns, rolling to the edge of the table where Will caught it before it fell._

 _He looked down on it, his soft gazed eyes matching his voice when he spoke; "I take it as an open invitation"_

 _Jack was fighting his wide smile becoming too smug, although he felt entirely entitled to it.  
He hadn't misinterpreted the smith anyway. The horrible nightmares were only a rum coated delusions and nothing more._

 _\------------------------------------------------_

 _Anamaria caught Jack by his sleeve when he was swaying towards his cabin in full completion.  
"She's finally here then, isn't she?" Anamaria's exclaim sounding more a statement than a question._

 _Jack twirled around on his heel and quirked an eyebrow "Where? She? Who?"_

 _"She's here, she finally gave up the whelp, right?" Anamaria sounded way too bright to be alarming, so it couldn't be anyone who was posing a threat. Atleast not an imminent one._

 _Jack was baffled beyond words. The woman's appearance was exited and even slightly amused, and Jack just couldn't get as to why. Then again, it didn't matter. Must be something to do with the moon, or something like that…"You're not making any sense at all"_

 _Jack pulled his sleeve off from Anamaria's clench and went back to his interrupted swaying, leaving Anamaria behind to send Jack the evil eye.  
It was only a question. She'd get the answer in the morning._

 _\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

 _It was the very first time Will was setting foot into the cabin in bright daylight.  
Now that it wasn't dimly lit, everything was pouring colour to it._

 _Signing the Articles made Will feel an odd sensation of something huge, unimaginably proportioned…something, shift slightly forward, making him feel light-headed for a second._

 _"…So, dear William. What made you accept the invitation?"_

 _Will smiled somewhat wickedly at the bottle in his hand._

 _"Do you have time to listen? I'm afraid the answer isn't short."_

 _"I have all the time in the world." Jack' s tone and his open arms told that he was, in fact the owner of the world, and he could very well do what ever he pleased with it._

 _"And I'm in the mood for a good story." Jack leaned back in the chair and lift his feet on the desk to comfortably pay every attention to learn everything the man had to share. "Tell me. What happened?"_

 _Will was ashamed of what he thought was stupidity, or a type of blindness to see how his life had conducted itself to the point where he was akin to an abused dog.  
Always loyally coming back to it's master with the swinging, hurting, bruising cane, simply because it had no knowledge of anything else, therefore it didn't have a choice. _

_His sheltered life at the naval port hadn't given him the opportunity to see other aspects of life, only the ones that were presented to him.  
He'd spent the early years of his adolescence in learning how to mask his feelings, learning propriety and how to present himself in front of people, living up to their expects.   
There had been this gnawing feeling, eating away in the back of his mind, that in some way it wasn't right. Something was out of place but it was just out of reach for him to put his finger on it long enough to recognize it._

 _So he let it pass._

 _Mr. Brown had of course seen the possibilities in his friendship with Elizabeth._

 _Well, prospects, was more like it, as he would encourage Will to spend time with the Governor's daughter as much as the work at the smithy allowed. Mr. Brown hadn't always been a slobbering drunk, and Will didn't have nor hold any grunts against him. After all, Mr. Brown wasn't the only man in the world to take advantage of situations that held the potentiality of a better life for himself and for his fosterling. He had meant well._

 _Governor Swann on the other hand had indulged his daughter, bending on every wish the girl might come up with, even before Elisabeth had voiced them out, so the blooming, innocent friendship wasn't something Weatherby wanted, or was able to deny. The girl had lost her mother. The loss couldn't be replaced with gifts, couldn't be forgotten by fleeting distractions of elaborate surprises, so the boy was a godsend. The friendship obviously made Elizabeth happy, and so she got to keep Will.  
Of course the working class status of the boy was an issue, but, in the rather small community there weren't too many suitable companions for a higher class female youth anyway, and Will could be moulded and taught properly to fit the description.   
After all, Weatherby would have probably tried climbing to a greased pole arse first, if that was what his daughter asked for._

 _The sense of duty had been hammered into Will's core being from the very first day he set foot on the ground of Port Royal ._

 _It's probable that the thought of Will possibly wanting something else had never crossed any one's mind. Not even his own._

 _Except, maybe, for the few days after his eighteenth birthday when his friends had taken him to god-knows-where, got him drunk and he'd woken up under a turned dinghy, with a stinging pain above his right wrist._

 _His friends told him that the tattoo spelled "nine" in some foreign language, and that he had insisted on getting it after seeing the design on some ragged sailor in the tavern.  
Some other ragged sailor had had the honours to be the artist._

 _Even then, Will had pushed away the feeling of not belonging and discarded what ever little apprehension tried to work it's way through ._

 _Then the day dawned. The day when Will took a step back to see what had become of him and his life.  
Come the night, only to find the young blacksmith-apprentice mortified by the futility of his existence, and the lack of meaning that left him near cursing the day he was rescued from the sea._

 _He had been given the role of a fool and a marionette and he had been playing the part flawlessly.  
To be able to think, to be able to recognize the circumstances had ultimately been triggered by Jack. He had planted a seed when meaning to use Will as leverage for his own profit. Had Will not misunderstood Jack's purposes, he would never had come around to take the first step towards to what was to determine the rest of his fate._

 _He would have never come to loathe the pirate from the bottom of his heart for so shamelessly using people for his own advance, only to see that things weren't always what they seem.  
To see, that the exact same pattern had been woven for him all his life…and finally, in a state of awe, he took in the revelation that Jack had, against all odds, been the only person to be honest with him from the start. _

_Well, kind of._

 _Now, sitting here on the Black Pearl, with a black pearl in his hand, he understood that he didn't have to be the dog anymore. He didn't have to take the beating. And he didn't have to go back._

 _Will took Jack's compass which was laying on the table, open, the needle fixed Southeast, or rather, right where Will sat._

 _"It has magic in it. All of this. You." Will smiled as the needle made it's way towards Jack, doing slow round across the Black Pearl, and returned back to Jack._

 _Jack, for his behalf, his countenance solemn, closed his hands around Will's, shutting the compass. "I figure we won't be needing this anymore…"_  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'Didn't have to go back.' 'Didn't have to go back', rang in Sherlock's ears as we woke up with a start, tangled in his sheets, sweating, eyes flung wide open as the comprehension made its way through the dream. The mystery of the compass seemed so clear in the midst of his midnight maze, his brain working constantly even in sleep, and the answer was right on the border of his conscience, teasing him, flickering to and fro.

Sherlock untangled himself and sprung up from the bed, grabbed the compass and with utmost determination, decide to follow it through. No matter where it took him.

Upstairs, John was sleeping, for once in peace. The concoction Sherlock had made him drink had done its trick.

That was where Sherlock found himself, and no matter how much he twirled and hopped, the needle, as it always had, now that Sherlock dared to let the thought in his mind.

A twinge in his heart brought a recollection of his ream about the two men who found each other, how the compass had brought them together once an for all. Had Sherlock not had more important issues at hand, he might've wondered why the men were the same who had sold him the compass… But the notion of immortality was too far fetched, so Sherlock brushed it aside as poppycock. Figments f his imagination.

But his dreams had brought him here, to a man who had suffered like this blacksmith, Will, and overcame his troubles with chivalrous determination. All it had taken was a change. A change for the unknown. A change, where one could find his heart's desire.

'It'll come to you', echoed in Sherlock's ears once more, and in this moment, he realized it had.

What he could possibly do with this knowledge, was beside him.

"Have you stood there long?" John roused, lifting his head and squinting at Sherlock to better see him in the darkness.

"I don't have to go back."

"Pardon?" John shook his head to rid himself of the grasp his sleep still seemed to hold on him.

"You've been a distraction to me for quite some time now."

"Well…I, I never meant to meddle…"

"I can't work like this. This compass…it's trying to tell us something." Sherlock haned the gadget to John, who took it, leaning on his elbow on the bed.

The meager light drizzling through the curtains in the room revealed the compass' irection as it swirled again, headlong to Sherlock.

"See?"

"See what?"

"Is there anything behind me you're craving for? Perhaps a glass of warm milk?"

"No."

"Then, obviously, it's pointing to me. Just like it's pointing to you each time I hold it in my hands. It's unstoppable."

Silence fell between the men as John stared from the curio, to Sherlock, and back at the compass again.

Finally, John broke the static air with a casual movement, flinging his covers aside, revealing his bare chest down to his waist.

"The ball is in your court, Sherlock. You choose."

"I already told you. I never have to go back."

The static in the air changed nigh miraculously into a near tangible feeling of warmth, as Sherlock climbed into bed with John.

Both the men lying on their backs, calm, yet anxious, John held the compass up, peering at it, crunching his forehead. "What, exactly, does it do."

"I'm not fully confident," Sherlock locked his fingers between John's, holding the compass together with John.

Whatever magic the thing held within, it came forth, glowing a sheen of light blue around it, the needle swirling around like a whirlwind, before settling to point towards the head of the bed.

The same head, where John and Sherlock laid close, Sherlock's arm having found its way across John's waist, John's arm resting on Sherlock's, looking to all the world that it had always been like this.

Sherlock flipped the compass shut, the men lowering it on Sherlock's abdomen in unison.

John turned his head to see Sherlock's eyes, inquisitive; "You keep saying you don't have to go back."

"I don't. From this."

The compass as their only witness, glowing clearer, brighter by the moment, alighting the faces of the men who, for the first time, sought each other's lips, for the first time let their hands roam on each other's skin, and for the first time, lost themselves into one another.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _"Mister Turner" Jack sat on the edge of the desk, one leg dangling in the air, the other supporting him to the floor. With any luck, when the lad started throwing punches, he'd fall and hit his head and pass out for a while. The higher the fall the better. He would get to take five from all this.  
'Tell the lad the reason, he'll pack his effects an' be gone in a matter of days. Problem arose, ensued, is overcome, eh?'_

 _"William" he settled the tails of his coat to his lap._

 _Jack looked straight to the rigid young man's brown eyes and felt despair he remembered feeling when the Black Pearl sailed away from him. The feeling tore the only recently mended wounds open almost audibly._

 _"Will" he was tasting for the most suitable name for the occasion. This one felt right on his tongue. He'd found his own voice back too.  
'Can't be that bad…yes it can'_

 _"Will…there's really no way of sayin' this, so I'm jus' goin' to say it…you ready?"  
Jack was shaking inwardly._

 _"Yes" Will sat straight like an arrow, trying not to think of anything. In the few seconds that he had tried to think what could have caused this, there was a hurricane that swooped everything blank. So he just waited for the reasoning. Assuming there was any._

 _"Will…So it jus' happens that I found meself bein' horrified out of me wits today, ye havin' that gentleman threatening yer life an' all that."  
Jack fluttered his hand in between them as he spoke. His tone was clearly attempted to be casual but failed miserably._

 _"And it jus' so happens that I found meself contemplating on what might have caused said horror" He was gesturing with both hands to stop himself from trembling and falling off the desk.  
"And so I think to meself, 'this is what it feels like to be in love'"_

 _He stopped moving._

 _He looked right into the deep of Will's eyes, his face expressing mournfulness. "And I can't have you on this ship when I'm afraid you will die, savvy?"_

 _His hands were now folded on his lap, his head tilted to the left and he was waiting for what ever reaction his little speech might bring up. Surprisingly, he found himself smiling somewhat gently.  
'There. I said it. I feel better about it'_

 _Will sat silent, staring at the pulse that was visible on Jacks neck. It was as rapid as his own._

 _"You…what did you just say?" Will stuttered staring at the neck. Like waking up from a trance, he looked up to meet black eyes in front of him._

 _"You love me? Is that what you said?" The only thing that was readable in the tone, was disbelief._

 _"Aye. You got it right." Jack nodded. He was still smiling. He felt like an idiot, but he just felt so very, very good._

 _Will stood up, balanced himself taking support on the desk and took a step back.  
Examining the tips of his boots, his eyes were darker than usual. His neck was lit red that was creeping higher to his cheeks with every breath._

 _"You love me." He was talking to his boots "And you want me to leave. You want me to leave because you are afraid that I might die. You're afraid that I might die, because I'm here. Is that so?"_

 _"Aye" Jack nodded again. The tilt of his head was more to the left, but the smile had faded a bit. There was a glassy, dreamy look in the black eyes. Nothing was going to stop him from enjoying the last moments of Will's presence around the Pearl._

 _The alarming red flush of hot blood rushing through Will's veins had tinted his cheekbones with the rouge of anger._

 _"And what, Captain Sparrow, gives you the idea that I am acquiescing to your request?"  
Will was now looking into Jack's eyes, holding them still with his gaze. His face was stoic in spite of the colour. His voice was null. _

_"What on earth makes you, Captain Sparrow, think, that I am not disinclined and, Gods help me, even mutinous towards this outrageous suggestion?" Will took a step closer. He kept his voice calm but it was full of pain for it becoming a fully grown yell in any second._

 _"I am appalled by the thought that I would leave this ship, to any port, anywhere, no matter how much goods I'd have with me, and be forced to live with not knowing what is happening here." The quick air-intake via nose sounded loud between the words._

 _He was again stepping closer, placing his palms against the desk on either side of Jack.  
" I would have no means what so ever, to know if something has happened to you, Jack Sparrow, and I would be forced to live in constant fear coated with mind-shredding benightedness of what has become of the man that I love"   
The last words came out something of a shouted whisper, making them husky and almost menacing._

 _His face was just centimetres from Jack's, and he hadn't broke the gaze. He stayed there, puzzled by the hasty thought of the possible consequences rising from defying your captain running through his brain. Then again, he didn't really care as long as it meant he wasn't going anywhere._

 _Finally Jack broke the silence, blurting out the obvious from the corner of his mouth.  
"This mean yer questioning me authority?"_

 _Will fiercely bounced back up from his leaning posture and stormed to the door._

 _The echo of a loud "Yes!" rang in Jack's ears, just before the door was slammed shut again._

 _Jack was confused beyond belief._

 _Will's words were slowly taken into process and understood even slower._

 _Looking around him as if to make sure he was there, where he thought he was, he noticed a small red dot on the desk where Will's hand had been.  
The pressure on Will's digit had pushed out a single drop from the cut. Jack wiped over the dot with his finger and viewed it briefly._

 _He felt his head was stuck in hazy mush of wildly spinning thoughts that had some revelation to share. Completely unaware of his own actions, Jack, gazing into the void risen in front of him, he brought the tip of his finger to his lips and gave it a lick._

 _Almost like practicing with the less meaningful parts of bodily functions to limber up for the more challenging tasks, his brain allowed him to taste. Oh, blood. Salty. Like the sea.´_

 _Grasping around the comforting familiarity of the thought about the sea, the wheels behind Jacks face got the badly needed lubrication to function again and started turning . Squeaky still, but functioning.  
`He said he's not leaving` The first coherent thought made it's appearance like a candle lit in darkness, hand in hand with another one. `He most definitely said something about captains and love in the same sentence`_

 _It was a stretch, but it finally formed into a complete sentence. "He was talking about me"_

 _His eyes wide with the rush of feelings sweeping over and inside him, he slid down slowly from the edge of the desk, ending up in a heaving pile on the floor, every muscle in his body relaxed._

 _Never had anyone seen such bliss on the Captain's face as was pasted across it at that very moment._

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The Sun rose, as is her wont, finding two men tangled in sheets where there once was only one. The compass, having made its way to the bedside table after becoming a nuisance delving into Sherlock's hip as he scooted closer to John, sat there, dulled from its gleam, now shining only the glow of old wood. Waiting.

Waiting to get back to its rightful owners. Those men whose task in this world was no more, no less, than Death, and Love.

The End


End file.
